


To Taste Her Brilliance

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Irene Adler, BAMF Molly, Erotic, F/F, Femslash, Fierce, Halloween, Kink, Leather Kink, POV Molly Hooper, Strength, Strong Women, domineering - Freeform, feminine, ferocity, find yourself, molly centric, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 00:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12377094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: The warm scent of apple cider and pumpkin spice greets her, along with the erotic aroma of a hundred dancing bodies. Pulsing wildly under the gleaming lights, no one is quite an individual here, and no one is an outsider. From strappy leather outfits to military uniforms to shimmering lace, to the most modest women with the most mischievous eyes, everyone is represented here, because everyone represents themselves.





	To Taste Her Brilliance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexisriversong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/gifts).



This year has been terrible, and it’s not even done yet. Normally, Molly loves Halloween. The way the leaves change colors and fall, the pumpkins set out on door steps, and then, on Halloween, the chance to put on a mask and just for a moment, she can be anything. She can be a superhero. She can be a fox. She can be anything.

But she can’t be Sherlock’s.

She’s given up on that dream by now. At least, she’s given up thinking it’ll ever happen. She hasn’t quite given up the hope that someday, she’ll find something beautiful. The way Sherlock looks at his phone when it goes off, that crass moan tumbling through her head, she can’t help wondering if he’s already found it with someone else.

It’s October 31st, and a black and red invitation sits on the kitchen counter. She’s read it a hundred times and the curling letters seem embedded in her mind. It’s not like any other party she’s been to, and she’s quite certain she’ll be uncomfortable. Or at least, she would if she were going. As it is, she can hardly get comfortable in her jumper, let alone the strappy leather dress she’d purchased before deciding for sure that she couldn’t bring herself to wear it.

Something about the words _Kink Party_ are oddly appealing to her. Mild-mannered and generally modest, she rarely experiences anything outside her own little world. Beyond that, she can’t help wondering if Sherlock’s mystery woman is there. It’s a big party and the odds are pretty good that a woman who’d leave her own moan as a ringtone is into at least some of the things that will take place at this party. More than that, she’s quite sure that Sherlock will _not_ be there. A win-win.

So why won’t she go?

She eyes the invitation and finds herself deciding quite abruptly that it’s time to do something other than mope. Without allowing herself a second thought, she runs up stairs to shower, shave, and squeeze her way into the sexiest thing she’s ever owned. A pair of thigh-high boots complete the outfit and by the time she’s dressed, she feels quite certain that she might have a little bit of fun after all.

Preferring not to show this side of herself to the taxi driver, she retrieves an overcoat and makeup bag, deciding that she’ll complete the look on the way. She only has to wait a moment for a taxi to pull up, and she gives him the address from memory, picturing those curly letters as clearly as if she were looking at it now.

Painting the brightest red lipstick across her small mouth and painting cat’s eye wings with black eyeliner across her lids, she smiles at her reflection in the palm mirror. She teases her hair and decides to leave it down, a look she rarely goes for, and puts her makeup away.

When she arrives at the address she gave the driver, she discovers that this party is not only a “big party” but a _BIG_ party. Hosted in what can only be described as a mansion, there’s more than enough room for half of London’s party-goers to attend. And by the looks of it, most of them are here.

Feeling a bit wobbly, Molly makes her way down the driveway, grateful for the host’s foresight to light it well. This is meant to be a comfortable space and scary does not sit well with kinky for those who are less accustomed to indulging themselves. Lit by soft orange lights and gleaming Victorian lamps, the road is quaint and adds to the feeling that she’s not just making her way to a mansion, but to a new world. A world where anything shy of disrespect goes. And she’s had more than enough disrespect this year. She hurries her pace, suddenly eager to reach the party.

Music caresses her ears as she gets closer and a doorman offers to take her coat. Dressed in a sharp black tuxedo and masquerade mask, he does his part to set the ambience and smiles appreciatively at her own outfit. She blushes, wishing she could be more confident, and steps inside.

The warm scent of apple cider and pumpkin spice greets her, along with the erotic aroma of a hundred dancing bodies. Pulsing wildly under the gleaming lights, no one is quite an individual here, and no one is an outsider. From strappy leather outfits to military uniforms to shimmering lace, to the most modest women with the most mischievous eyes, everyone is represented here, because everyone represents themselves.

Without meaning to, she merges seamlessly with the crowd, thoughts of Sherlock’s mystery moaning woman far from her mind. She’s drawn naturally to others dressed like she is, and she wonders if she subconsciously chose an outfit based on what she liked more than anything else. One woman in particular, with hair as dark as night and dangerous red lips that rival her own, catches her eye.

The woman is hardly wearing anything, but what she does have is made of authentic leather and lace, a combination that’s somehow incredibly feminine and incredibly powerful. She absolutely seethes with the sort of dominating presence that Molly wishes she could be, and she eyes the woman hungrily. She’s not sure how it happens, perhaps it was simply meant to be, but soon she’s dancing beside her and one of the woman’s thin hands is wrapped around her waist.

Her breath is cool, somehow, as if she’s been chewing icy gum, but the only scent is spiced apples. The effect is more than intimidating. Molly wonders whether she could _be_ anything, _do_ anything. She’s drawn to the powerful way she moves, every movement controlled, every step a decision. She wants to have that in more than one way. She wants to be that way, and she wants to have her way with her. The woman’s strong eyes seem equally mesmerized by Molly, and the pathologist wonders what she sees.

“Strength,” she declares, as if she could read her mind. “You’re full of it, and you’re so careful with it. You’re a special one, aren’t you?”

Molly smiles, surprising herself. She hopes she shines. She hopes that her red lips and white teeth positively glow in the swimming Halloween lights, and she hopes that she’s radiant. _Brilliant._

“I am brilliant.”

They’ve stopped moving, and the woman stares at her, smiling. “Yes you are, aren’t you?” her lips move closer to Molly’s ear, so she could kiss her neck just as easily as she might bite it. “I am, too,” she whispers, tickling Molly’s skin with her impossibly cool breath. She pulls away and her eyes move to the small rooms set up for this precise purpose. Veiled with red and black drapery of various thicknesses,  each room offers the privacy—or publicity—to enjoy whatever sort of indulgences one desires.

In this case, Molly very much desires this woman. The spark in her eyes and the way she smiles back tells her the feeling is mutual, and she slips a hand into the woman’s to follow her there. She wants to lead, but she is sure that this woman would prefer to, and the movement feels routine. She sees power and strength and she wants it, but she wants to experience it, too. To be the subject of the sort of domination she wants to possess.

Laying back across a fantastically sheer mattress, Molly closes her eyes and enjoys the scent of her companion. The woman pulls at the leather ties of Molly’s dress and a soft moan escapes her lips. Molly’s eyes fly open and she sits up suddenly.

“You’re the woman,” she says, suddenly feeling as though she might choke on her own feelings. She’s not sure what she wants to do, but there’s a certain sense of anger and her fists shake bitterly.

“The woman who’s going to show you a lovely time tonight? Yes, I am,” she breathes, smiling ferociously.

“No,” Molly responds, retreating across the deliciously mattress top. “Sherlock Holmes’ woman. The text alert noise…your moan.”

Somehow, incredibly, the woman’s smile grows. “Irene Adler,” she says, holding out a hand to shake one of Molly’s. “Pleasure. Yes, that’s my voice, but I am _certainly_ not his woman. I’m not even really sure he wants to _have_ a woman, if you understand my meaning. Not like I want to have you.”

It takes a moment for Irene’s words to settle in Molly’s mind but when they do, she smiles. And then she laughs. And then she grins so broadly at the woman, _The Woman,_ and with so much fierce lust, that she can hardly understand how she doesn’t leap across the bed at her right then. “I am quite freer than I thought,” she decides crawling towards Irene with what she hopes is a seductive smirk. “As it turns out, I was the only thing holding myself back after all.”

Through an unspoken agreement, they’re deadly quiet as they slip the leather garments off each other, sometimes with their hands, sometimes with their teeth, and often with the fierce pleasure of their fingers. Neither of them moans just yet, enjoying instead the way their breath mingles and the primal sounds of pleasure erupting around them from the rooms they can’t quite see. They chose a room with particularly thin curtains, and there’s something stimulating about knowing that they are enjoying this moment with everyone around, just as everyone is enjoying it with them.


End file.
